rbed in the play. In the darkness she felt his hand close
over hers; gently but firmly she freed herself. As they drove back to St
John's Wood they hardly exchanged a word. Victoria felt tired; for in
the dark, away from the crowds, the music, the admiration of her
fellows, reaction had full play. Holt found he could say nothing, for
every nerve in his body was tense with excitement. A hundred words were
on his lips but he dared not breathe them for fear of breaking the
spell.

'Come in and have a whisky and soda before you go,' said Victoria in a
matter of fact tone as he opened the garden gate.

He could not resist. A wonderful feeling of intimacy overwhelmed him as
he watched her switch on the lights and bring out a decanter, a syphon
and glasses. She put them on the table and motioned him towards it,
placing one foot on the fender to warm herself before the glowing
embers. His eyes did not leave hers. There was a surge of blood in his
head. One of his hands fixed on her bare arm; with the other he drew her
towards him, crushed her against his breast; she lay unresisting in his
arms while he covered her lips, her neck, her shoulders, with hot
kisses, some quick and passionate, others lingering, full of tenderness.
Then she gently repulsed him and freed herself.

Jack,' she said softly, 'you shouldn't have done that. You don't know
. . . you don't know . . .'

He drew his hand over his forehead. His brain seemed to clear a little.
The maddening mystery of it all formed into a question.

'Victoria, why are those two razors on your dressing table?'

She looked at him a brief space. Then, very quietly, with the
deliberation of a surgeon,

'Need you ask? Do you not understand what I am?'

His eyes went up towards the ceiling; his hands clenched; a queer choked
sound escaped from his throat. Victoria saw him suffer, wounded as an
aesthete, wounded in his traditional conception of purity, prejudiced,
un-understanding. For a second she hated him as one hates a howling dog
on whose paw one has trodden.

'Oh,' he gasped, 'oh.'

Victoria watched him through her downcast eyelashes. Poor boy, it had to
come. Pandora had opened the chest. Then he looked at her again with
returning sanity.

'Why didn't you tell me before? I can't bear it. You, whom I thought. .
. . I can't bear it.'

'Poor boy.' She took his hand. It was hot and dry.

'I can't bear it,' he repeated dully.

'I had to. It was the only way.'

'Ther